The contraction stole my breath before I could ask the question again.
For a few agonizing seconds, nothing else existed—not the chart in Ethan’s hands, not the crowded delivery room, not the unanswered questions swirling in my head. There was only pain, sharp and relentless, crashing through my body like a wave I couldn’t outrun.
I curled forward instinctively, gripping the hospital sheets so tightly my knuckles ached. Sweat dampened my forehead as Linda stayed beside me, her voice calm and steady.
“Slow breaths, Chloe. That’s it. You’re doing great.”
Great.
I almost laughed.
There was nothing graceful or great about this moment. My hospital gown clung uncomfortably to my skin. Every muscle trembled from exhaustion. My throat burned from hours of labor.
And standing only a few feet away was the last person I ever expected to see here.
Ethan.
The man who should have been beside me from the beginning.
The man who had no idea this baby even existed until today.
As the contraction finally eased, I collapsed against the pillow, drawing shaky breaths.
“What does it say?” I asked again.
Ethan didn’t answer.
The silence terrified me.
His eyes remained fixed on the clipboard as though he’d discovered something impossible. The nurse who had handed it to him shifted nervously near the doorway. Linda glanced between them.
“Doctor?” she prompted softly.
Ethan blinked and seemed to return to reality.
Without another word, he handed the chart back.
“Call maternal-fetal medicine,” he told the nurse. “And notify the blood bank. I want units available immediately.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
“Blood bank?” I repeated. “Why would you need blood?”
He stepped toward me, then hesitated, stopping himself halfway.
For a moment I saw it—the reminder that things between us were no longer simple.
“Chloe,” he said carefully, “there’s a note attached to your earlier records. One of your scans raised concerns about a possible placental complication.”
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about? Every appointment was normal.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I want another specialist to evaluate everything. I don’t want to take chances.”
“The safest decision about what?”
His eyes flickered toward the monitor.
Before he could answer, Linda reached for my hand.
“It may be nothing serious,” she said gently. “They’re being cautious.”
Cautious.
That word did nothing to ease the panic spreading through me.
A moment later, the door opened and another physician entered.
She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to emergencies. Silver strands threaded through her dark hair, and her sharp eyes immediately took in every detail of the room.
“Chloe Bennett?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’m Dr. Elena Navarro.”
Unlike everyone else, she had no history with me. No memories. No complicated emotions.
And in that moment, that felt like a gift.
She reviewed my chart quickly before looking up.
“Your baby’s heart rate looks excellent,” she said. “You’re progressing well. However, we found a previous note mentioning possible placenta accreta.”
The term sounded vaguely familiar, like something I’d once read online and immediately wished I hadn’t.
“What exactly does that mean?”
Dr. Navarro stepped closer.
“It means the placenta may be attached more deeply than normal. Sometimes it causes no problems at all. Other times it can lead to significant bleeding after delivery. Right now, we’re preparing for every possibility.”
Preparing.
Not panicking.
That was clearly the message she intended to deliver.
Unfortunately, my body hadn’t received it.
I turned toward Ethan.
“Did you know about this?”
The question struck him harder than I expected.
“No,” he answered quietly. “I didn’t know.”
Those words carried more weight than either of us wanted to admit.
He hadn’t known about the diagnosis.
He hadn’t known about the pregnancy.
He hadn’t known about any of it.
